The Liberian

Chapter 19

No.” Larel shook her head. “Fire can’t burn me unless it’s made by a much more powerful sorcerer.”

“I see,” Vhalla mused softly, watching Larel tuck the last of her bandages back into place.

“Good. Well, nothing seems out of order. I only wanted to check up on you.” The sorcerer sat back with a smile.

“You wanted to—or you were sent to?” Vhalla inquired.

“Do they have to be mutually exclusive?” The woman stood. “Oh, and by the way, happy birthday.”

“How did you know it was my birthday?” she asked dumbfounded.

“When you were in our care, the minister sent for all your papers and records. I noticed your birthdate.” Larel fussed in a small bag for a moment. “Here.” She held out two small parcels.

“What’s this?” Vhalla accepted the treasures with both hands.

“Birthday presents, silly.”

Larel said it like it was nothing, but Vhalla placed them reverently in her lap. She barely expected her friends to remember her birthday, more or less get her anything. To have someone she had barely knew give her not one, but two gifts.

“Oh,” Larel added, “one is from Fritz. I made the mistake of telling him where I was headed this morning, and he was insistent.”

“Can I open them now?” Vhalla asked.

“Go ahead.” Larel nodded, giving a small smile at Vhalla’s girlish enthusiasm.

Vhalla placed one to the side, as she had a feeling she already knew what it was. Taking the smaller of the two gifts, she unwrapped the simple brown paper and twine to reveal a beautiful metal cuff. It was thin and turned up slightly on the sides with a small gap in the back to slide her wrist through. She studied it in the light. Embossed upon its surface were foreign runes that Vhalla didn’t recognize.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, turning it. Vhalla sincerely hoped her new friend had not spent too much.

“I’m glad you like it,” Larel beamed.

“I love it, Larel. Wherever did you get it?” She brought it closer to her face and inspected the writing carefully.

“I made it.” Seeing Vhalla’s startled expression, Larel added, “Firebearers are often jewelers or smiths. We can temper metal, make flame, keep heat. Not being able to be burned helps.”

“These markings?” Vhalla asked.

“They’re Western,” Larel answered.

Vhalla nodded, feeling overwhelmed. Turning to the other gift with the unassuming wrapping, she discovered an old and ragged book. The title had nearly faded, but the writing within was still completely legible: The Art of Air.

“Fritz felt bad because it wasn’t a real present you could keep forever,” Larel explained.

Vhalla shook her head. “This is amazing,” she whispered.

“I thought you’d like it.” The sorcerer grinned.

“Please, tell Fritz thank you for me,” Vhalla said, still turning the book over in her hands.

“Want to come and tell him yourself ?” Larel inquired. “You have the day off for your birthday, right? I’m sure the minister wouldn’t object into allowing you back into the Tower since you’ve yet to make an official decision.”

Vhalla considered it for a moment. She had enjoyed her time with Fritz, and reading with him again would be nice. Perhaps she could even eat more of the Tower’s food as a birthday present.

Her eyes turned to the window. The slit in the wall offered little light, but she could see the clouds drifting through the sky upon a fall breeze. Vhalla shook her head, overcome with the insatiable urge to be outdoors.

“Thank you for the offer. But I think I would like to be outside today,” Vhalla said thoughtfully.

“I understand,” Larel nodded and said with a tone that made Vhalla believe her. The dark-haired woman began to move to the door but paused, glancing at Vhalla’s closet once more. She opened her mouth briefly as if to say something but when she turned back, her expression changed. “Take care, Vhalla. We’re only a call away should you need us.”

“Thank you, Larel, for everything.” Vhalla smiled.

Larel poked her head out of the room and then crept away.

Wearing one of her gifts, she placed the other in her bag. The days were almost exclusively cool now, and her winter robes had finally arrived. They were spun from thicker wool and heavier materials than her summer and fall robes. Vhalla was perpetually cold, and she welcomed the cloth in all its itchy glory. Just like her summer robes, an open book was stitched on the back of her winter robes, marking her as one of the library. Vhalla stared at the blue thread. How much longer would she be wearing them?

Vhalla decided that she would actually give some care for her appearance today. It was her birthday. Another year older, another chance at maturing and developing womanly habits she had yet to find a taste for. Through her tarnished looking glass, Vhalla moved her head to fit in the palm sized reflection. Her hair seemed marginally better.Vhalla had one special stop planned before she set out on her day. She headed upward into the sweaty din of the kitchens. It was a bustling place of noise and stomach-growling scents. Vhalla did not often have reason to frequent them, but on her birthday she hoped for one exception.

Lemons only grew in the far West and on the outer islands, so they were a delicacy in the other regions of the main continent. The kitchens served a small cake with tea or lunches for nobles and royals. White sugar glaze on top, Vhalla coveted the spongy yellow sweet throughout the year.

With just the right amount of begging—and luck— she had one palm-sized dessert wrapped in cloth and stashed in her bag for her birthday.

As far as Vhalla was concerned the palace had three worlds wrapped within it. The innermost world was the lowest in society; it was tucked away in closet-like spaces with servant dormitories, apprentice rooms, and hallways that ran through walls. It was the roughhewn stone, chipping mortar, and stairs that were not quite evenly spaced. Candlewax dripping down the walls was their artwork and all the pleasurable scents of the plumbing—the palace’s and Empire’s sophisticated aqueduct system was their perfume.

Above that world was the public world. This had the showy rooms common folk were permitted to see and the halls nobles and ministers walked through. It was polished and swept with fresco artwork and stone sculptures.

This was where Vhalla walked today. Not completely unorthodox for an apprentice, she enjoyed the beauty of the palace at her leisure. Most of the halls stood empty as Court was in session and the ministers were at work.

Vhalla had never stepped foot in the last world of the palace. Not unless she counted passing through in secret stairwells behind a prince. The quarters for royalty and their high ranking noble guests were closed off with a gold-gilded gate. The most dangerous guards were posted day and night, keeping out all who would presume to force entry. Vhalla had only set eyes upon it once as a curious girl before she had been shooed away.

Vhalla did not know what she was looking for, she simply walked. Spiraling upward and downward she drifted from one thing to the next. She passed one or two other servants, but they asked her nothing and she offered nothing.

Vhalla might not have had a goal when she started this meander, but she knew she had found it when she saw it.

Through an upper window Vhalla gazed upon a garden she had never seen before, hidden within a palace courtyard. Graveled pathways spiraled through the dense hedges, plants, and trees. Many of them were beginning to lose their green foliage, changing into the fall orange and reds. The trees looked aflame as they swayed in the bright sunlight.

She spotted a gate through the windows as Vhalla spiraled around the garden. However, none of the stairwells up or down led her to a passage that connected to it. Frustrated but determined, she found the lowest window she could. It was almost impossible to see over the hedge positioned right before it.

Opening the window, Vhalla stepped over the stone and landed lightly in the garden below. She could barely close the portal behind her and would need to find something to stand on to return later. The wind ruffling her hair, Vhalla plunged through the bushes and into another world.

A breeze swept down the mountainside, stopping Vhalla in her tracks. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. The world was alive around her, and each gust of air was like the whisper of a lover upon silk.

In awe, she held out a hand, inspecting it as though she could see the air visibly slipping between her fingers. This was more than the soft huffs that managed to breeze through her window. She could not see it, but she could feel it. Not in the way that one normally feels a breeze. No, recalling Larel’s words, Vhalla could feel the essence of the wind. It was as though she could grab it and close her fingers around something finer than any silk or chiffon.

An upward gust drew her gaze skyward, and Vhalla’s breath hitched in her throat. Towering high above her was Imperial Housing. Her whole body tingled at the sight. It was the first time she laid eyes on the golden spires since her fall.

She had no reason to be alive. The spires were astonishingly high with a straight drop down. Vhalla tried to imagine what she might have hit, but nothing seemed to make sense. All the ledges and decorations were to the sides of the tower; it was a far descent before there was anything that could’ve broken her fall. From her current vantage she could discern that she would’ve had to have moved a good six or seven body lengths in the air to have hit anything. It all seemed vastly impossible.

Shaking the painful memories from her mind, Vhalla gripped her bag and began walking through the garden. She had seen an unorthodox structure from the windows and attempting to find it was a much better use of her time than musing over princes and near-death experiences.

Fortunately, all paths seemed to wind toward her goal and Vhalla’s heart beat in a weird rhythm at its beauty.

The building looked almost like a birdcage. Silverwork arched together, holding large panes of swirled glass upright as walls. At its apex stood a silver sun. Vhalla fidgeted with her fingers, thinking. She had only ever seen the blazing sun of the Empire crafted in gold.

The glass had a touch of fog to it. While she could make out hazy shapes and green blurs, it was impossible to discern what was inside from where she presently stood. Three silver steps led up to an arched door.

Her hand paused on the silver handle. Her heart was racing but she couldn’t place why.

Roses assaulted her senses upon entering. They grew along the outer walls and up a large central post. The temperature within the greenhouse-like structure was warm, perfectly kept for ensuring the Western crimson flowers stayed in bloom.

Her slippers did not make a sound as she walked lightly over to the pillar, inspecting one of the buds. Movement drew her attention past the stunning foliage to a silver bench in the back, opposite the door.

She was not alone.

A man sat hunched over an open ledger and seemed to be deeply engrossed in the notes he was taking. Vhalla’s blood ran cold, and she took a step back. This was not supposed to happen. Out of all the people in the world she was not meant to meet this man clad in black, with his slicked back hair and dark eyes.

Vhalla was debating how best to make her escape when his pen stopped and his chin slowly rose. His eyes widened, and his brow furrowed as his lips parted slightly in shock. The deep, rich voice that broke the silence made her teeth grind.

“Are you real?” Prince Aldrik whispered in obvious surprise.